You Can't Always Get What You Want
by November9Noir
Summary: My muse seems to be in fine form again, so getting the stories out from last season.  I think I'm almost done with this series, but don't worry, I'm sure there will be more inspiration with Reese and Finch!  Thank you for reading/reviewing and commenting.
1. You Can't Always Get What You Want

Title: You Can't Always Get What You Want

Author: November9Noir

Rating: PG-13, T+

Disclaimer: I do not own the characters from 'Person of Interest', nor am I profiting from this work in any way.

Author's Notes: What happened after Ep. 1.4 'Cura Te Ipsum.' Mostly Finch, internal dialog.

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><p>Reese's phone shut off about 8:30 p.m. The GPS function placed him at a notorious singles' bar at a small upscale hotel in Chelsea. The history showed that usually he'd stay an hour or two, then leave, doubtless with a belt or two (or more) of Scotch in him. Finch wasn't particularly concerned, it was quite clear that Reese could handle himself in any situation calling for physical self-defense. But this time, he hadn't left after several hours (or at least his phone hadn't), and the possibility of some... <em>other<em> extra-curricular activity that could be on Reese's mind did give him some cause to worry.

During the stakeout for Benton, who turned out to be a serial sexual predator, Finch had heard the women trying to pick Reese up. Reese's focus had been admirable, and he'd blown the women off easily enough, but now that it was over Finch felt it was almost inevitable that the other man's attention would turn to other, more basic needs.

Oh, well. Reese was a grown man, and could certainly take care of himself. A warrior and a man of action. Unlike Finch himself, stuck inside, behind the scenes, the brains of the outfit, the scholar, trapped in a creaky body that was increasingly unwilling to do what his mind wanted.

No matter how many times Finch scolded himself that such jealousy was beneath him, it still cropped up in him. He had presented himself to the world as dead, and was now effectively married to the machine. Reese could present himself as a former soldier, and doubtless women would fall all over themselves to see his battle scars…

_Didn't I suffer, too_? _Didn't I sacrifice as much as he did_? _Don't I have scars_? _Three fused vertebrae in my neck and four in my thoracic spine_? _I don't have a day without pain_! Finch just wanted to shout at the world sometimes.

But, inevitably, his quiet dignity would reassert itself, and Finch would pull himself together. Just to see if Reese would respond, he sent a text. Nothing.

The next morning, movement. Reese was leaving the hotel at almost 11 a.m. Finch's phone rang a few minutes later, Reese doubtless checking on the message from last night. In what he had to admit was a fit of pique, Finch decided not to answer.

Almost an hour later, Reese strolled in, hurrying but trying not to seem like he was hurrying. He carried a take-out box from a food van and some sodas.

"I'm sure you've been here all night, so I brought you some lunch," Reese offered. "I had a taste for Afghan street food."

"Lamb kebabs, _naan_ bread, and _boulanee_," Finch poked at it, and wrinkled his nose. "I don't think I can stomach that much garlic and leeks right now."

Reese shrugged. "Fine. More for me." He took his own portion and Finch's, too, washing it down with Coke.

"Worked up an appetite last night, did you, Mr. Reese?" asked Finch, mildly enough, but with an undercurrent of something John couldn't quite define.

John wiped his mouth with a napkin and sat back. "Is there a problem, Finch? Did I miss something?"

Finch just looked at him, letting one of his famous long silences draw out. "No, nothing new from the machine," he finally said. "What you do on your own time when you're not on mission is your own concern. I'll not ask questions."

"You don't need to ask questions," Reese pointed out. "You have the machine."

"Hopefully it won't come to that, Mr. Reese." He seemed willing to let it go at that, so John dropped it.

"What did you do with Benton, anyway?" Finch finally decided to ask. Reese had been more closed-mouthed than usual about the conclusion of this particular case.

Reese's expression became troubled. "I just can't get my mind around it. Benton was successful, good-looking, but an everyman, so…_ordinary_. And he was a sexual predator. He could have been anyone, even me. When those women tried to pick me up, it crossed my mind how easy it would be to do whatever I wanted. Yes, I took care of him, but I'm still not sure I did the right thing."

_Doubt. Something new to John Reese_. Finch filed that tidbit away in his mental memory bank about this man. "It's a nice day, Mr. Reese. Go out and enjoy it. I'll call you when we get something."

Just before Reese left, Finch leaned back and called out to him. "One piece of advice, John, times being what they are. Safety first."

"Safety first," Reese agreed.

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><p>Reviews are love and fluffy bunnies!<p> 


	2. Paint It Black

Title: Paint It Black

Author: November9Noir

Rating: PG-13 or T, for adult themes

Disclaimer: I do not own these characters and am not profiting from this work in any way.

Author's Notes: Thank you to Belka and SillyKnight12 for your reviews! Set immediately after Ep. 1.6 The Fix. Some speculation, possibly AU as the series continues! Inspiration struck, so I had to get it down right away. Unbeta-ed.

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><p>Reese had never given much thought to Finch's board, the pictures and numbers and bits of string running every which way, his own personal collage and mosaic of meaning. But then he had plucked Dana Miller's picture off, and Reese realized that every name and face on that board had a story behind it, and his failure to help had haunted Finch. No wonder the man never seemed to sleep. But then, neither did Reese.<p>

Finch wasn't there today. Perhaps he was out buying up another company. Reese looked at the board without really seeing it, letting his eyes drift all over. Then, suddenly…

_There_. Reese dropped to his knees. Low, on the left, other pictures thick around it but yet still standing out alone, it was her, Jessica, looking much the same as he'd last seen her, but sad and worried.

His heart dropped somewhere past his stomach. A familiar ache started again, that horrible open pit that gnawed at him, mocking that he'd tried to save her and failed.

That was where Finch found him when he returned. Reese shot to his feet and shoved the picture into Finch's face. "Tell me about her," he demanded.

Finch took the picture. "Jessica Martins. Murdered by her husband three years ago. The police said it was a crime of passion, but the bastard had been planning it for a while. She was one step ahead of him, thought. She tied up everything in trusts, left him penniless. He had a court-appointed lawyer who pled temporary insanity. He was convicted."

"Where is he now?" Reese wanted to know.

"Medium-security psychiatric facility, about 2 hours outside the city," Finch replied. Reese was lost in thought. Finch thought he understood that look. "I know this is the woman you left behind, John," he said softly. "There wasn't anything you could have done to save her."

"No?" Reese spun on him. "I saw her, at the airport, five years ago. She was engaged, but she said she would wait for me if I asked. I didn't. Three little words. _Wait for me_. She might still be alive if I'd said them."

_Would you actually have come back for her_? Finch thought, but refrained from saying. No point in putting salt in the wound, was there?

Reese drummed his fingers on the desk. Then he announced, "I'll need an NYPD I.D., a driver's license, and a car. I'm going to see him."

"**NO**, Mr. Reese. Absolutely not."

"You know I can do the I.D.'s myself in the next half hour. I still have Stills' badge. I'll steal a car if I have to. Do you want to risk that?" Reese stared him down.

Finch met his gaze, unblinking. "What will this serve? You can't bring her back."

"Are you going to help me or not?"

A silent battle of wills, neither backing down. "All right," Finch said finally. "Cops drive Crown Vics. There's an early 2000's model parked at the garage 2 blocks away. I'll arrange for you to pick it up. I'll also call the facility to expect you."

Just like that, it was done, and Reese was on his way an hour and a half later. He pulled up to the old, creepy, cheerless red-brick facility in a small valley just before visiting hours were over. Just as Finch had promised, they were expecting him. The guards took his I.D., cell phone and gun, accepted his story without question, and put him in a grim interview room.

The guards brought the man in. Sean Martins. He'd once been good-looking, like a young Tom Cruise with dark blonde hair, the same blue eyes and rakish grin. Prison had not agreed with him and the psych ward even less so. No matter how much paint was put on the walls, it was still a cold, dark hellhole.

He slid across the table from Reese, and the burly attendant left them. Martins looked at him with dead eyes. He was emaciated, at least thirty pounds underweight. "You're not a cop," he declared. "I can tell. I'll never forget how cops are."

"You're right," Reese said in his soft voice. "I'm not a cop. I'm here about your wife."

"What about her?" Martins demanded. "She's dead. I killed her. That's why I'm here."

"You son of a bitch. Are you proud of that?"

Martins looked at him hard, and his eyes widened. "It's you. The one she wanted to wait for. I know all about you." He laughed disbelievingly. "She never loved me, not really. She cried for you as she died."

Reese leapt to his feet and lunged across the table. Martins cringed back, but Reese took a deep breath and got himself under control. He reached into an ankle holster and pulled out a small pistol.

"Are you crazy?" Martins gasped. "How did you get that in here? Didn't they search you?"

"I gave them the weapon they were expecting from an NYPD officer." He held the gun, considering. _Make the right decision_, Reese could almost hear Benton mocking him in his head.

Martins stared back at him. "Go ahead," he muttered, his shoulders slumping. "Do it. Put me out of my misery."

Reese looked at him a long time. "No," he finally said. "I won't kill you. I was going to, but I won't. If I'm in my own private hell, then you should be, too." He concealed the pistol again and called for the guard.

(Later.)

His phone rang when he was about an hour out of the city. "Sean Martins is now on suicide watch, Mr. Reese. What did you do?" Reese didn't ask how Finch knew, he could get any information he wanted on those computers.

"If I wanted him dead, he'd be dead, Finch," Reese retorted. "Martins is too much of a coward to kill himself. He'll rot in that place."

"Well, now, do you feel better?" asked Finch.

Was that a rhetorical question? When was the last time something had really made him feel better?

"Mr. Reese?" Finch pressed when he didn't say anything. Reese's finger hovered over the disconnect button. "You did the right thing, John." There was only more hard silence on the other end.

"Tell that to Jessica." Click.

_Call ended_.

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><p>Okay, so somewhat AU based on Ep. 1.22 'No Good Deed,' Jessica was killed by her husband, just more recently! But I'm gonna keep everything as is.<p> 


	3. I Can't Get No Satisfaction

Title: (I Can't Get No) Satisfaction

Author: November9Noir

Rating: PG-13, T+ for alcohol use, some coarse language, adult themes and sexuality. Perhaps a bit fluffy.

Disclaimer: I do not own any characters from 'Person of Interest', nor am I profiting from this work in any way.

Author's Notes: Set after Ep. 1.6 The Fix, a few days after Chap.2 'Paint It Black.'

Very flattered to be on some 'Favorite Authors' lists already! Thank you to Belka, Leia, and Dickensian for your reviews of Chapter 2. They disappeared (I think) because I hadn't posted the chapter properly before. I think I've got figured out now! Enjoy & review!

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><p>It wasn't justice, not really, as far as Reese was concerned. Dana Miller was still dead, and the old man would probably die before anything came to trial. Lawson had an army of high-priced lawyers who would drag and delay until the end of time…<p>

And Zoe? Well, Zoe had just been a tease.

He wandered the streets early Saturday morning, feeling out of sorts. Apparently New Yorkers were being nice to each other on these lovely fall days; The Machine wasn't pulling up any numbers with a bullet, so to speak. Really, there was nothing for him to do.

10:30 a.m. Reese ducked into a likely-looking Irish pub and put himself at the farthest corner, back to the wall and a view of all entrances and exits. Old habits die hard, he reflected, ordering the reserve label whisky, straight up. He nursed it as the place slowly filled with regulars, coming in for a late breakfast or from the local soccer or cricket match. There were cricket teams in New York? Who knew?

John had finished his second drink and ordered a third when four women came in and took their apparently usual place. Three of them sported armloads of shopping bags, while the fourth one didn't. He wondered why she had caught his eye and shifted his focus to her. Soft, wavy auburn hair, pulled back to fall behind her, blue eyes…

_No…way_. The day was suddenly looking much brighter. It was the same woman who'd picked him up at that hotel in Chelsea; there could be no doubt about it. He forgot about his drink as he watched her. She ate a hearty breakfast, no concern about carbs for this one, drank a lot of coffee and generally had a good time with her girlfriends. It seemed she knew everybody, and when the others cleared out she stayed to play darts with the other regulars.

She put her jacket on one of the tables near the dart board, and John moved closer. It was a rousing game, men versus women, with a lot of teasing and trash-talking going on, though she was a better than fair player. John stepped behind her about halfway through the match, close enough for her to hear him.

"The jeans and boots are nice, but they don't really do you justice," he commented in his soft voice. "A tight skirt and some f-me heels would show off your legs much better."

"Thank you _so_ much for waiting until I had finished my round," she said sarcastically, not looking at him as she let the first dart fly. "I don't _have_ any f-me heels," the second dart launched," and besides," the final dart left, "what do you know about my legs anyway?"

"How could I forget such a great pair of legs that wrapped around me so well?" John said. She finally turned to face him. Her eyes widened as she recognized him, and she smiled brilliantly.

"Hello, John. What are you doing here?"

John raised his glass. "Having a drink. Admiring the scenery. How about you, Claire? What are you doing here?"

"I met some friends for breakfast."

"You didn't come in until after 11," he pointed out.

"I'm really not a morning person, all right?"

"You left early enough the other morning."

Claire smiled. "9:30 is not that early. You were dead to the world. And you looked so peaceful that I decided not to wake you."

"Best night's sleep I've had in a long time." Her turn had come up again, and her fellow players were bellowing at her to pick it up!

"Can't you see I'm _talking_ to the man?" she flared at them, a distinct Irish lilt to her voice. She took her turn, still making her shots, but not as well as before. John smiled to himself. She was a cool customer, all right, but he'd rattled her a little bit. The chase was going to be sweet on this one.

"I don't recall you having an Irish accent," he observed. "I usually have a pretty good ear for that sort of thing."

"Hanging around with my people here, I start to talk like them. I can't help it. Get me with some Puerto Ricans and I'll do the same thing."

"That is too cute," John smiled as the waitress came up to them.

"This man bothering you, Clarissa, love?" she asked.

"No, Patricia, it's all right."

"Too bad," Patricia smiled. "He can come bother me any time. Well-dressed, a good tipper, and those Black Irish good looks?" Her brogue was as broad and as outrageous as she was.

"When does your husband get home from the merchant marine?" Claire asked her.

"Next month. He'll have only a month's leave this time, and then by the time we're getting on each other's nerves again he'll be off."

The other players had moved on without her, so John suggested they continue outside. She agreed, so they moved to the glassed-in patio and sat at the high stools in the corner. John ordered another whisky, while she ordered a peach bellini.

"It's a little early for me for the hard stuff," she said.

John shrugged. "Suit yourself. So, tell me, what is your link to Mother Ireland?"

Claire thought about it for a moment. "I'm 10th-generation Irish-American. I have dual citizenship. I spent every summer in Ireland for the first 20-some-odd years of my life, and I lost my virginity when I was 17 to a nice Irish Protestant boy. Now that you know something about me, tell me something about yourself, John."

"Not much to tell, really. I haven't done much with my life for the last few years except try to drink myself to death."

"Oh, such a waste. Why would you want to do that?" He had no answer for her, so he said nothing.

She was sharp, though. "You lost someone." It wasn't really a question.

He took a drink. "She was murdered."

"Jesus, I'm sorry."

"The bastard that did it is rotting in a psych ward upstate. I've been in some hellholes, and it's no more than he deserves." Reese swallowed the last of his third whisky and started on the next one.

"You clean up well, John. What stopped your self-destructive slide? You're obviously not in A.A.," she said significantly, nodding at his glass.

"I got a job. Something I'm good at."

"Something you like to do?"

"No, not all the time. But it's necessary, and I'm sure you've heard the expression 'If you want something done right, you've got to do it yourself.'"

Claire put a hand over his. Her body language was relaxed, open and inviting. John reached over and felt the fall of her hair.

"I like your hair like this, casual. Your perfume is different, too. Lighter, more floral."

"Different perfumes for different moods," she said. He moved his hand over to that place on her neck, yes, right _there_, that he'd discovered the other night, that place that made her shiver and smile.

She leaned over and kissed him, moving her other hand to touch his chest. He didn't give it much thought until he heard the click of the catch on his wallet.

"What the hell? Did you just pick my pocket?" John grabbed for it, but she playfully batted his hand away as she rifled through it.

"About $100 in small bills," Claire announced. "Good for cab fare and drinks. No I.D. or credit cards." She closed it and gave it back.

"Almost exactly what you had in your purse the other night. Except for handcuffs. Where are you carrying those?" John teased.

"I wasn't anticipating needing them today, John, so they're at home."

He threaded his fingers into her hair, pulled her to him and kissed her deeply. Fortunately they had the place to themselves.

"There it is," Claire murmured when he finally let go. "Now we get to it. What do you want, John?"

"I think that's fairly obvious," John replied, his quiet voice now husky. "I want you, Claire. I want your legs wrapped around me. I want you beneath me, raking your nails down my back and screaming my name when I make you come. Or you can be on top. Either way works for me."

She sighed and leaned into him again, kissing him and pulling his hand out of her hair. "No, John. Not today."

"Why not?" he demanded, not quite letting her go. She gave him an icy look.

"Because I said 'no.' That should be reason enough."

"Let's clear out the vending machines in the restroom, get a cab back to the hotel, and spend the rest of the day together."

"Clear out the vending machines of what, cigarettes?" Claire asked. For all his intelligence, he missed the warning signs.

"Condoms, of course." Several things happened at once.

She kicked his bar stool from beneath him. John flailed, landed hard, and she dumped both of their drinks on his head, then threw the glasses into his lap. She grabbed her jacket and shot out towards the exit.

"Claire! Damn it!" he shouted as he hoisted himself up. The glasses fell to the floor and shattered. Patricia appeared in the doorway and blocked his leaving.

"_Oi_, sexy boy. You were planning on leaving without paying for those drinks?"

"Oh, you mean the ones she just threw in my face?" John asked sarcastically.

"Aye," Patricia nodded, not moving from the doorway.

"Fine!" he sighed in exasperation, pulling out his wallet. "Twenty enough?"

"Glasses are broken," she pointed out.

"That's on your precious Clarissa, being as she _threw her drink in my face_!" Patricia only shrugged, so he pulled out another twenty dollar bill.

Which she slipped into her ample cleavage as he pushed his way out past her. Reese noticed, but he had no time to deal with it.

Claire was halfway down the block by the time he got outside. "Will you wait, please?" John called after her.

Spinning on her heel, Claire shouted back at him. "Go _away_, John! I'm angry with you!" She disappeared down the subway entrance, and he hurried after her.

But he was far enough away that when he finally got downstairs himself she was already inside the turnstile, talking with the Metro attendant, who, inevitably, had already summoned a transit cop. "That's the man who's been following me, officer," John heard her say as security made his way over to him.

"You botherin' the lady, mister?" The guy was Reese's own height, but at least twice as broad, belligerent, just this close to getting in his face.

"Claire!" he called, but she shook her head and was gone down the platform.

"Hey, pal, is there a problem?" the cop asked. Reese felt like hitting him, but thought better of it.

"No, no problem, officer," John said, admitting defeat, for now. Even if he could get across the street and get another train, she could be halfway to anywhere across the city by then.

He was starting to feel sticky from the various types of alcohol dumped on him, so he decided that he'd better get back to the Library and get changed. He hoped he wouldn't get arrested for public drunkenness before he got there.

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><p>Reviews are love and homemade chocolate chip cookies!<p> 


	4. Play With Fire

Title: Play With Fire

Author: November9Noir

Rating: PG, T

Disclaimer: I do not own the characters from 'Person of Interest," nor am I profiting from this work in any way.

Author's Notes: My inspiration: Where does Reese sleep? (If he does…) Set right after Chapter 3, later that same afternoon. Fluffy!

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><p>Reese stalked in, a black scowl on his face. Finch looked up in surprise.<p>

"Good afternoon, Mr. Reese. Is everything all right?" Reese shook his head sharply and headed toward the closet. Finch trailed after him and caught the whiff of alcohol. "Have you been drinking?"

"I really don't want to talk about it, Finch," growled Reese, stripping his suit jacket off. "I just want a shower and to get these clothes washed. What time does the dry-cleaner close?"

"Ah, two o'clock on Saturdays," Finch replied, having to think about it for a moment. "They will pick up for you, you know." Reese practically threw the jacket at him. Finch caught it and _tsk_ed. "Really, John, if you're going to be drinking expensive Irish whisky the least you could do is not spill it on yourself."

"It wasn't exactly my idea," Reese growled again. He grabbed a towel and went into the bathroom, slamming the door behind him.

He showered as only a military man could, in and out in less than 5 minutes, and then dressed again in one of his nearly endless supply of identical off-the-rack black suits. Reese apparently had no use for tailoring. It was one of the few indulgences Finch allowed himself.

Finch handed him the bag for the drycleaners, expressionless as usual, but Reese couldn't help feeling that the other man was laughing at him inside. Finch went back into the other room to whatever he had been doing. Reese flung the bag over his shoulder and stalked out.

…Finch acknowledged him with a nod when he came back in, but didn't say anything. Reese prowled the rooms like a caged animal before dropping into a leather occasional chair with an exasperated sigh, which earned him a raised eyebrow from Finch.

"What?" Reese demanded.

"I didn't say anything, Mr. Reese. However, if you'd like to talk about whatever it is that's agitating you, here I am. Tell me what happened to you today that brought you in here in a foul mood and smelling like a hangover."

"A woman I met in a bar threw her drink in my face," Reese replied blandly.

Finch blinked. "You're going to have to back it up just a little bit more, John."

"All right. A couple of weeks ago I met this woman at a bar…"

"Yes, the night you were voluntarily incommunicado," Finch interrupted. "I had surmised that you had procured yourself some presumably female companionship. Go on."

Reese looked cross-eyed at him at the 'presumably,' but decided to let it go. "I stopped at an Irish pub this morning, had a drink or two, then lo and behold, the same woman walks in. Short version, we talked, I bought her a drink, I suggested we could pick up where we left off, she got pissed and threw both drinks in my face."

"Playing with fire, were you, Mr. Reese?" Finch said ironically. "Is there a long version of this story?"

"I thought things were going well, so I told her I would like to be with her again. She said 'no.' I tried a little harder, said we could pick up some protection on the way, and that's when she dumped my drink and hers on my head."

"Well, if it was as just as subtle and classy as all that, then of course she would have had no reason to throw her drink in your face."

"Come on, Finch!" Reese sputtered, shooting to his feet.

"All right, all right, calm down, Mr. Reese. She said 'no,' correct?"

"Doesn't that mean that she wanted more convincing?"

"Sometimes," Finch conceded. "But if she said 'no' a second time, you really should have let it go. But then, if she took such offense, it sounds like there's a possibility that she's a bit mentally or emotionally unstable."

Reese thought about that. "Hmm. Crazy sex, you say? No," he shook his head with a small smile, "It's been a long time, but I've had crazy sex before. She may be many things, but crazy isn't one of them."

"If you say so." _Whatever you need to tell yourself_, Finch mused to himself.

"You don't sound convinced," Reese observed dryly.

"She picked up a perfect stranger in a bar. This doesn't sound to me like a woman with good judgment."

"A double standard, Harold?" grinned Reese. "How…old-fashioned of you."

"I'm not as medieval as all that. In fact," Finch said as he began flipping through a Rolodex, apparently oblivious to the irony, "I have the number here, somewhere, of a reputable establishment that, for a price of course, will provide the companionship of lovely and…accommodating young women."

"What are you, a pimp now?"

Finch rolled his eyes and visibly restrained a huge exasperated sigh of his own. "Mr. Reese," he began in that lecturing tone he had, "You have proven yourself to be a man of exceptional talents, but nonetheless you are still a man. I understand as well as anyone that a man has needs. Is this an ideal solution? No. But it does take the edge off." He held the card out to Reese.

"What would one of these women charge for a little sympathy?"

"Sympathy?" echoed Finch. "Very kinky, Mr. Reese. They usually charge more for that."

Reese considered it, and then shook his head. "No, Finch. But…thank you. I'll keep it in mind."

"Suit yourself." Finch continued with his project, still watching Reese. Then, out of nowhere, he asked, "I have to know, Mr. Reese. How did you know about using lye to dispose of a body?"

Reese gave a hard smile. "Gardening. Roses like acidic soil, so you use lye to make it that way."

"And…there are instructions on these bags of lye that tell you how to use it in…other ways?"

"Depends on where you shop," Reese said cryptically.

Playing with fire, indeed! Finch decided to let it go.


	5. Sympathy For The Devil

Title: Sympathy for the Devil

Author: November9Noir

Rating: PG-13, T+ for adult situations, mild language

Disclaimer: I do not own any characters from 'Person of Interest,' nor am I profiting from this work in any way.

Author's Notes: Inspired by Ep. 1.7 'Witness', whoa, did we get Soze'd or what? Some information possibly AU based on Reese's back story shown Ep. 1.8 'Foe.'

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><p><em>Thank you<em>, he'd said to Finch only a few weeks ago. _Thank you for giving me a job_. Now the words were ashes in his mouth. Everything he'd done, above and beyond what he'd usually have to do, cut off from Finch's support all those long hours, improvising, keeping Burton alive…and it had all turned on them.

Elias. The new wanna-be don. Reese wished it could be incomprehensible to him how someone so _ordinary_ could be so evil, but he'd seen it often enough in war, on both sides.

He'd just started feeling certain of himself again, thinking that he was doing good in the world. Maybe The Machine didn't make moral judgments, but that just meant it fell on them to be more careful. Finch had too much faith in his creation.

There, then, was the rub of it-faith. Reese had none; it had alternately been frozen out of him in the bone-numbing cold of the Kandahar Mountains in winter or scorched out by the brutal Middle Eastern sun in the summer. Faith had seeped out of him with every sniper's bullet, every improvised explosive device, every so-called 'freedom fighter' that hid among civilians and used women and children as human shields.

Not that the so-called 'right' side had been any better. He'd traded in his fatigues for a CIA necktie and immediately been put to work in dehumanizing prisons that, in the States, wouldn't have been used to keep animals in. He'd been a terrifyingly good torturer, and once he'd lost his faith, he'd started to lose his soul as well.

Now all he knew was that he'd been wandering the city for the better part of 24 hours. He'd stalked away from Finch, angry, questioning everything, desperately wanting a drink but too keyed up to go anywhere or even be remotely civil to anyone.

At some point he'd even sought comfort in Zoe Morgan's arms, but she had wisely sent him on his way. "In the mood you're in now, John, no, I don't think so," she had said in her throaty voice, but not before he'd practically kicked her door down and bruised her lips with rough kisses.

Even then, even after she'd said 'no,' he almost hadn't stopped. It had taken every ounce of willpower to pull back, to not just take what he wanted. And for just a moment, she had been afraid of him, he'd seen it in her eyes, and he hated himself for it. He'd become any number of unsavory things over the last ten years, but he'd be damned before he let his anger with this Elias character turn him into a rapist, too.

Zoe had looked at him oddly when he'd dropped her abruptly, apologized, and left. So that asset was probably lost to him forever, too.

He resisted going back to Finch. But, realistically, where else could he go? Finch had offered once to set him up for life if he wanted out. But to go back to what? Self-medicating with booze and sleeping on the subway? He'd gotten too much of himself back for that to be an option.

So around dusk the next day, the promised early fall nor'easter getting ready to drop its payload on the city, Reese, shivering, exhausted, hungry and footsore made his way back to the building that didn't exist and worked his way inside.

"Hello, Mr. Reese," Finch's voice rang out, confident as always. "I've got a new cell phone for you. Try not to break this one, if you please." Finch held Reese's eye as he took the phone. "Are you committed to this, Mr. Reese?"

"Yeah, Finch, I am." And so it began again.

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><p>Reviews are love and homemade chocolate chip cookies!<p> 


	6. Street Fightin' Man

Title: Street Fightin' Man

Author: November9Noir

Rating: R, T+ for violence

Disclaimer: I do not own the characters from 'Person of Interest,' nor am I profiting from this work in any way.

Author's Notes: I struggled with this chapter a bit because it wasn't flowing the way I wanted it to, and then, inspiration! Tell it in flashback style, like they do in the show sometimes! (Heavenly choir sings… lol) I did some research online, but I have only visited New York once, so any geographical mistakes are completely my own! _P.S. _Updated after a very salient point by TyrannosaurusRegina(hey, I just got that, that's funny!), thank you! (I may have found my beta!)

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><p>"911, what is your emergency?"<p>

"Yes, please, send an ambulance. They've been shot."

"Who's shot, ma'am?" the operator asked.

"There are three of them. They tried to mug us. Jesus, he shot them!"

"Ma'am, are they breathing?"

"Yes, he didn't kill them; he just shot them in the legs…"

"Are you in any immediate danger? Where are you?"

"They're all knocked out. I'm at 8th Avenue and West 68th Street, near the Boathouse."

(A few hours earlier…)

Claire extricated herself from the clutches of a gaggle of octogenarian biddies and made her way over to the nearest bar. Reese saw his opportunity and stepped behind her.

"Peach bellini, wasn't it?" he asked in her ear.

Claire closed her eyes and shivered slightly when she heard his voice, that deep, quiet, sexy voice that had been haunting her erotic dreams for the last month… "Not in this crowd," she replied. "Definitely something stronger, like vodka and cranberry juice."

"I'll get this," Reese told the bartender. "Glenlivet for me, double, neat."

"You do turn up in the most surprising places, John. How did you know where I would be tonight?"

"Your friends at the bar told me."

"My friends at the bar talk too much," she grumbled. She stayed facing the bar while Reese moved to the corner and admired her dress. Full-length basic black, with a subtle touch of shimmer, long sleeves, backless, slit up to the knee on one side.

"You are stunning tonight, Claire. I thought the cocktail dress you wore was nice, but this is something else. You do glam very well."

"Flattery will get you nowhere," Claire said, taking a healthy swallow of her drink. Were her hands shaking?

"Ouch," Reese smiled. "You wound me. Am I still not forgiven?"

"Have you apologized?"

"We're both adults. You were very direct with me when you asked me to spend the night with you. I was giving you the same courtesy. However, I will say I'm sorry that I came on so strong that you felt you had to throw a drink in my face and _then_ sic a transit cop on me."

She looked at him sideways at his back-handed apology, but then she smiled. "All right, John, you're forgiven. And it wasn't entirely your fault. I was on my period that day, although you were acting like an ass. You were just so **sure** that you were going to get into my pants again."

"That's…cruder than I would have put it," he said with a small smile.

"But you thought it, didn't you?" Claire sighed and pushed back from the bar. "Thank you for the drink, John, but I've got to go mingle now. This is a 'see and be seen' type of thing, you know."

"I'll come with you," he immediately offered.

"Suit yourself."

"Is this _really_ your thing?" asked John as they made their way back into the main room. "Opera?"

"Not opera itself, no," Claire replied, 'but the ballet, the symphony, the arts, yes, that's 'my thing.' "

Reese hovered near her for the next hour or so, growing increasingly fidgety with the society debutantes who giggled and swooned and sighed over him, and the Wall Street young guns that tried to move in on Claire but caught one glimpse of him and took off the other way.

"You are _really_ cramping my style, John," she complained as they found a private alcove near the exit. "Maybe I was hoping to meet a nice man here tonight, and you're scaring them all away."

"You did meet a nice man here tonight," Reese pointed out.

"No, I didn't. You are not a nice man."

"You're right," he agreed. She stepped closer to him.

"You are a bad man."

"Yes, I am." His eyes invited her closer, but he didn't touch her.

"You are all wrong for a good Catholic girl like me."

"Absolutely," he said. Claire tilted her head and gave him a crooked smile. "But you are not a good Catholic girl. You are a very bad girl."

She finally pulled him close and kissed him, tall enough in her stilettos that he didn't have to lean down. And she'd said she didn't _have_ any f-me heels! "What time is it?" she asked, pulling away after kissing him breathless.

Reese fumbled for his phone and checked. "Almost ten."

"Good. All the old dragons should be gone now. Let me get my coat and purse, and we'll blow this popsicle stand. Let's go for a walk in Central Park."

It was a clear night, cool but no wind. The park was only a block over from Lincoln Center, and then they walked a few blocks farther up. A half moon rode high in the sky. Reese pulled her under one of the streetlamps and kissed her.

"No room in that purse for handcuffs or condoms," he teased.

"I'm sure there's a bodega or an all-night drug store on the way to the hotel," Claire replied. "Would you like to spend the night with me again, John?"

"Thank God!" exclaimed Reese. "I was beginning to think you'd never ask. Yes, I would absolutely like to spend the night with you again. Very much."

She kissed him just as a young man appeared out of the shadows.

"Mm, mm, mm, mm, _mm_!" he called, a little too fast and aggressive. "Man, I'd do whatever it takes to have those legs wrapped around me, too." Reese whirled around and put Claire behind him. Two more toughs joined him under the puddle of lamplight, and the first one pulled out a gun.

"Now, be nice, man. Give me your wallet and the lady's purse, and we'll take those nice earrings of hers, too."

"No can do," Reese said quietly, but with a hard tone of command and an undercurrent of menace. "Just walk away, right now, before someone gets hurt. Namely, you."

The gang laughed uproariously at that. "You got _cojones_, man, can't deny that," the erstwhile leader said. "Now, give it over before **you** get hurt."

Reese exploded into a blur of motion, grabbing the first man's gun and spinning him around, shooting the other two in their legs. He then punched backwards into the first man's face, breaking his nose and sweeping his legs from under him. The young man dropped to the ground like a stone, then Reese cold-cocked him to make sure he was fully knocked out.

One of the other thugs was reaching into his pocket for something, so Reese sprang over to him and punched him out as well, and then took care of the third guy. He quickly searched their pockets, pulling out switchblade knives and a couple of cell phones.

Reese tossed one of the phones over to Claire. "Call 911," he ordered. There was something so cold and methodical about him now that she hesitated.

Sirens began to wail, far away but not far enough. Reese pressed the gun into her hands. "Do you know how to use this?"

She nodded. "Double action revolver, top break, six rounds. Pretty basic. I'd prefer a P9 or a Sig Sauer, but I can hit someone from here."

Reese smiled, impressed. "You should be okay until someone gets here, but just in case. I have to go, I'm sorry. I can't get mixed up in this."

"_Mixed up_ in this?" Claire nearly shouted. "You shot them, John! I'd say you're pretty well _mixed up_ in this already!"

"Just believe me, I'm sorry," Reese said, as soft as usual but with an odd catch to his voice. He kissed her and melted away into the darkness. She sighed in annoyance and dialed 911. She was starting to shake now, but whether from cold or shock she couldn't tell.

(At the police station, a few hours later.)

Fusco was still chuckling to himself when Carter came in from checking with the duty sergeant. "You called me in for a mugging gone wrong, Fusco?" she asked, annoyed.

"No, Carter. You are gonna _love_ this. Sergeant called me in based on a perp's description, and I thought you should know, too." He took the surveillance photo from one of her files, and then gestured her towards the interrogation room.

A sullen white youth was handcuffed to the table, both eyes completely black, a splint on his nose, cotton wadding inside his nose, and his shirt drenched in (presumably) his own blood. "This is Detective Carter," Fusco announced, kicking the door closed. "Carter, this is Jimmy Collins. Jimmy, _you_ may have tangled with a suspect of ours from another case." Fusco tossed the grainy blow-up on to the table.

"Dat's hib," the wanna-be mugger said stuffily. "Dat's da sud ob a bitch dat broke by dose!"

"Mr. Suit,' Carter said. "What happened?"

"Little Jimmy genius here and his friends tried to mug Mr. Suit and his girlfriend. Mr. Suit shot the two others with Jimmy's own illegal gun and put them in the hospital," Fusco informed her, rather gleefully, Carter felt.

"Are dey gonna be all right?" Jimmy wanted to know.

"Both hit in the upper part of the leg, muscle only, no permanent damage," said Fusco. "They'll be able to stand up at their arraignment tomorrow."

"Fug dat!" Jimmy shouted. "Dis guy shoots two ob my friends ad duthin's gonna happen to hib? Whad about da lady? She was dere! Ask her what happened!"

"That _lady_," Fusco said nastily, "has a job, society references, and no criminal record. While you, Junior, have a rap sheet as long as my arm, and that doesn't include your juvenile record. We're done here. You're lucky; you get to spend the night here. We're not gonna bother to take you to the Tombs or Riker's Island tonight."

Fusco and Carter breezed out. "So, what's the story?" Carter asked. Fusco gestured to the conference room where a woman waited.

"Mr. Suit was walking with this lady in Central Park after some fundraiser at the Lincoln Center. The Three Stooges thought they had a nice, easy mugging. Mr. Suit didn't think so, put them all down on the ground in 10 seconds flat, told her to call 911 and disappeared. We're pulling up the tape from the party now."

It didn't take long to get what they needed. "Interesting," Carter mused. "What's his angle?"

"The guy works fast," commented Fusco. "What _is_ it about the suit that women find so irresistible?"

"So, who's our other vic?" Carter wanted to know.

Fusco pulled out his notebook. "This would be Clarissa Sheridan, age 31, of Bay Ridge."

"As in Sheridan Investments and Real Estate?"

"She's not saying, but I'm thinking so. It's not Trump, but they do all right."

"Let's go talk to her." Carter had the portable DVD player with her along with the footage in question. "Ms. Sheridan," she said as she walked in, "I'm Detective Carter, Homicide. This is my partner, Detective Fusco."

"Homicide?" Claire asked. "I'm sorry, Detectives, but all this seems a bit…excessive to me. Did one of the young men die?"

"No, just some painful flesh wounds," replied Carter. "They'll be charged in the morning. I want to talk to you about the man you were with. What do you know about him?'

"I think the question really is, what do you know about him?" countered Claire.

"Ms. Sheridan, this is a bad guy. We're pretty sure he was stalking you." Carter put the disc in and pressed 'play.' It showed the surveillance footage from the Lincoln Center. "As you can see, he snuck in, _here_," she pointed out, "and made his way into the main auditorium."

"And then made a beeline for you," Fusco continued. "You didn't seem too surprised to see him. He stuck to you like glue, and after a while you left together. You've met this guy before, haven't you?"

Claire closed her eyes and sighed. "Ms. Sheridan, this is important," Carter pressed. "Have you seen this man before?"

"Yes," Claire said finally. "Yes, all right? About a month ago, I picked him up at a hotel bar in Chelsea, and we spent the night together."

Fusco's grin nearly split his face. Carter fought the strong urge to kick him in the shins. "So, what's his name?" Fusco asked.

"I don't know his name," Claire replied somewhat impatiently. "He said his name was John."

"Oh, that's original," he scoffed. "Did he at least buy you breakfast, or did he just leave a couple of hundred dollars on the nightstand?"

"I wasn't looking for Mr. Right, Detective, just Mr. Right Now."

"Look, we're not here to judge your personal life," Carter interupted. "Had you seen him at all after that but before tonight?"

"Yes, about 2 weeks later, at an Irish bar on Lafayette Street that I go to sometimes."

"And you didn't think that was weird?" Carter asked.

Claire shrugged. "It's a big city. His story was reasonable. I didn't think I had any reason to be afraid of him."

"I'm sorry to say that you should be afraid. I've got his fingerprints linked to seven major crimes since 2007, and that's just here in the city. Felonies, like assault, arson, and even murder. He's picked up the pace this year, though." Fusco handed her the recording from the subway incident. "We had him cold here, but someone bailed him out. Since then…" Carter took her through everything, from Anton and his friends being shot by their own black-market weapons, Theresa Whittaker, the bank robbery by the ex-military men, then the police evidence locker robbed for a _very_ specific item, which led to the Elias case and the brutal fallout that was still going on from that.

"I can't believe I was so stupid," Claire said, almost to herself.

"It's strange to say, but you're actually lucky you were mugged. This guy might have killed you if he'd gotten you alone," Carter said. "Don't feel too bad. He's a psychopath. Apparently a rather charming one, but they say so was Ted Bundy. What else can you tell me? Was there _anything_ strange about him?"

"I'd really rather not talk about that in front of him," Claire said, nodding at Fusco.

"Hey, I can tell when I'm not wanted," Fusco said. "I'll let you ladies talk amongst yourselves."

Claire sighed as he left. "I'm really tired. Do we have to do this here? I'll tell you want to know, but it's, what, 1 a.m.? I'd really like to go home now."

"All right," Carter sympathized. "Let me put these files away, and I'll take you home."

Fusco's phone rang. "Don't leave yet, Lionel," Reese ordered. "That woman from the mugging gone bad, get me her address."

"What, don't you have it already? _John_?" Fusco needled him. "Hey, it's cool. Meet me tomorrow night, 7 p.m., bar at Westchester and Castle Hill."

It was a quiet drive out to Bay Ridge. Carter noticed that Claire kept her hands clasped together to stop them from shaking.

Claire lived on the 7th floor of a 10-story apartment building, one bedroom, lots of space, great view of the Verrazano Narrows Bridge. "I'm going to have a cup of tea," Claire announced when they got inside. "Would you like some?"

"Yes, please, that would be great." Carter sat down at the dining table while Claire put the kettle on and went to change clothes.

She came out in a sweatshirt and pants a few minutes later. The water was ready, and she got cups for both of them and sat down across from Carter.

"Whatever I tell you, Detective Carter, is this official?"

"I'll make it all off the record if you like," Carter replied. "I just want to get inside his head somehow."

"I've just been thinking it all through, if he acted at all strangely. He bought me a drink, we danced, and I asked him to spend the night with me. He hesitated at first, but then he said 'yes.' We got into the room, and it was actually kind of cute, he was so nervous. He said he hadn't been with a woman for ten years."

Carter scoffed. "And you _believed_ him?"

"His hands were shaking. I can't imagine being able to fake that. He was worried about pleasing me, but he was so gentle, and, believe me, Detective," Claire smiled, "he knew how to please a woman. He let me handcuff him to the bed once, and he seemed to enjoy it. I had condoms, and he didn't argue with me about it; he was completely into everything. That's why I don't understand why he would stalk me. I've already had sex with him, so what's the point?"

"Last time it was light bondage and safe sex. He'll escalate. It's not about the sex. This is a game to a man like him. He's getting off on the feeling of power by stalking you. You should take steps to protect yourself. Does this place have an alarm?" Claire shook her head at Carter's question. "How about personal protection, then?"

"I've got a Sig Sauer Platinum. A present from my brother."

"But do you know how to _use_ it?" Carter emphasized.

Claire smiled. "Oh, yes. I even have a CCW permit for it."

"Get it ready, then. Better let me see your license to make sure everything's in order, though."

"I have to requalify every year, just like you do, Detective."

"Better safe than sorry." Carter watched her load the gun. "I hope this won't be necessary, Claire. He's not scared of the police, but maybe this will have been a little too close for comfort, and he'll back off. But honestly, I wouldn't count on it. Don't hesitate. Call us if you see him, and if he's threatening you, I suggest three taps to the chest and one to the head."

"Gruesome image." Claire made a face. "I've never shot anyone before. I've been hunting, but…"

"If it's you or him, what are you gonna do? I know you'll make the right decision. Keep that gun with you _at all times_, am I clear? Until we get this psycho off the streets, you may not be safe."

"It's just so hard to believe. Yes, I will definitely carry this with me until further notice. Thank you for taking me home, Detective."

"I'll call you if we hear anything."

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><p>Whew! Thanks for reading if you've gotten this far! Review are love and cinnamon rolls!<p> 


	7. Under Cover of the Night

Title: Under Cover of the Night

Author: November9Noir

Rating: PG, for some crude language and swearing

Disclaimer: I do not own the characters from 'Person of Interest,' nor am I profiting from this work in any way.

A/N: Set the next evening after Chap. 6 'Street Fightin' Man,' the aftermath. I am really starting to like Fusco, I hope I have his character down here.

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><p>Fusco was pretty well three sheets to the wind by the time Reese found him at the rowdy working-class bar in the Bronx, filled with loud music, loud voices, pool and darts, and the smell of cheap beer and cigarette smoke.<p>

"Hey, buddy!" Fusco bellowed, catching sight of him, slapping him on the back.

"You said 7 o'clock, Detective," commented Reese, sitting next to him at the bar.

"Commute was good today, got here early, decided to start without you." Fusco just kept grinning as Reese ordered a double Scotch, neat.

"What are you smiling at?" Reese finally asked.

"You, man. Way to go!" Fusco made a mock boxer's move, a quick flurry of shadow jabs to Reese's midsection. "I never knew you had it in you."

"What are you talking about?" Reese's voice was still soft, but Fusco had no trouble hearing him amid the noisy din.

"Hah!" Fusco guffawed. "The sexy redhead? The one who picked you up in Chelsea? Whoa, what a dish! You really got your freak on, didn't you? Come on, tell me, man, what's she into? Those society girls sometimes like it real rough and nasty, I heard. Whips and chains? Or maybe you like to get tied up? Ooh, there's a scary thought!"

"Don't make me hit you, Lionel," warned Reese.

"What, are you defending her _honor_ now?" he scoffed. Reese's fist and jaw tightened, and Fusco wasn't drunk enough to miss it. "Okay, okay. Easy, big guy."

Reese swallowed his Scotch. "The address, Detective."

"Yeah, yeah, I got it here." Fusco couldn't resist needling him a little more. "Carter thinks you're some kind of mad predator psycho stalker. She tried to get a judge to put a bug on your girlfriend's place, so she don't turn up raped and murdered. Judge didn't go for it, though. But that got me thinkin'. I'd feel real bad if I did give you her address and you go and kill her."

"Is that what you think is going to happen?" Reese's eyes were hooded, so Fusco couldn't really see his expression.

"I know what you're capable of. But my gut tells me 'no.' Carter, she's a good cop and all, don't get me wrong, but she's still a skirt. Women just don't feel it the same way we do, so they? They don't get that a man has…needs." Fusco pulled a scrap of paper from his pocket and handed it to Reese. "Now you owe me one."

Reese finished his drink and stood up. "I suppose my phone call to Internal Affairs can wait another day."

"Hey, couldn't your friend with the glasses get the address for you?"

"This is…personal. I'd rather not involve him in it. Are you going to leave it alone?"

"Yeah, maybe. For now, _John_. You know, this makes you a little more human, not as creepy, a little more relatable, now that I know your dick works." Reese should have known. Fusco was like a pit bull. He had something in his teeth and would never let it go.

"I'll call you a cab, Lionel. You of all people should know not to drink and drive."

Fusco was still entirely too pleased with himself, and just couldn't resist yanking Mr. Suit's chain just a little more. As the cab sped down the Expressway towards his home, he pulled out his phone and called up the police report from the previous night, an unfortunate tale of a mugging gone wrong….for the perpetrators, at least!

_Hey_, he wrote to the untraceable e-mail address he'd been given a few weeks before, a3re at x7anonz com. _You want to know what our mutual friend has been doing? Or should I say __who__ he's been doing?_ Still chuckling, he attached the report and sent it on its merry way.

(Claire's apartment, Bay Ridge, 10 p.m.)

The gun's weight in her purse was comforting and yet troubling all at the same time. Claire was still trying to reconcile everything Detective Carter had told her about John to what she knew about him.

Which, admittedly, wasn't much. She had, well, _experienced_ him as a considerate and gentle lover, but also witnessed first-hand the kind of mayhem he was capable of. From that, assault and bank robbery didn't seem so unlikely, but arson and murder…?

Lost in thought, she unlocked the door and went over to the foyer table. The door closed behind her, and she caught a glimpse of a shadow just as John loomed up next to her from the kitchen and pinned her right arm to her side.

"Please don't scream," he said quietly. "I promise I'm not going to hurt you. I just want to talk." Claire nodded, swallowing hard.

"You really should have an alarm on this place," Reese commented conversationally.

"Could you have gotten around it?" she countered, her tone caustic.

"Yes." No braggadocio or false modestly here, just a simple statement of fact. "I'm glad I didn't have to, though. However," his other hand flashed out, quick as a cobra, and grabbed her wrist as she was reaching for the gun in her purse, "I'll take that. I'm really not in the mood to get shot." Reese relieved her of the purse and stepped back.

"Nine in the magazine, and one in the chamber," he observed as he deftly unloaded it. "Nice piece, by the way. You know how to take care of it, and I've seen that you know how to use it."

"How did you know I was carrying?"

Reese shrugged. "Gun case in your closet is empty, and there's fresh gun oil on the cleaning brushes."

Christ, he had been in her _home_ for God knows how long, rummaging through her things…! "Did you find my toys under the bed, too?" Claire asked sarcastically. Reese half-smiled at her, and she slapped him, hard.

"Damn it, you are **really** starting to scare me, John! Detective Carter said you were stalking me, and I didn't want to believe her, but now…"

"What do you think now?" he asked in his soft voice.

"Showing up here in my apartment when I never told you where I live? Breaking and entering? It's not looking good for you!"

"Nothing's broken," Reese protested mildly, amused in spite of himself at the combination of fury and terror and desire in her eyes.

"This isn't _funny_, John! Jesus Christ! If you picked the lock, I'm pretty sure that's a felony, too! This is not normal behavior, not the behavior of a non-stalker!"

"Oh, you've been stalked before?" Reese grabbed her hand as she tried to slap him again. "I deserved the first one, for scaring you, but don't do that again. You need to calm down." He firmly escorted her into the living room, his hand a vise grip on her arm.

He took her over to the baby grand piano conveniently placed by the picture window. "Do you play?" He knew already, of course; the keys were worn and the sheet music well-thumbed through.

"Yes," Claire said somewhat defiantly, but softening, as though confused by his behavior.

"Play something for me," Reese asked. "Please?" He released her, and she hesitated by the bench seat, but then sat down and started playing.

Reese moved a few feet off and sat down in a comfortable armchair to assess the contents of her purse, besides the gun. Wallet, check. Pepper spray, check. It was good she gave herself self-defense options. And amazingly, she did have a cell phone after all. He debated cloning it, but decided against it for the moment.

She finished playing, something quiet and classical and sweet that he thought he should know, but his classical music education was pretty much limited to Saturday-morning cartoons. "Mozart?" he hazarded a guess.

"Beethoven. Moonlight Sonata."

"That was lovely. Can you play something I might recognize?"

Claire thought for a moment, the plunged right in.

_He will never says where he comes from_

_ Yesterday don't matter if it's gone_

_ While the sun is bright, or in the darkest night, no one knows_

_ He comes and goes_

She sang along quietly, accompanying herself. Reese knew the song, of course, Ruby Tuesday by the Rolling Stones. He didn't miss the gender change she put in the lyrics, either.

_Don't question why he needs to be so free_

_ He'll tell you it's the only way to be_

_ He just can't be chained to a life where nothing's gained, and nothing's lost_

_ But such a cost…_

No sheet music here, she played from memory…

_There's no time to lose, I heard her say_

_ Catch your dreams before they slip away_

_ Dying all the time, lose your dreams and you will lose your mind_

_ Ain't life unkind?_

_ Good-bye, Ruby Tuesday, who could hang a name on you?_

_ When you change with every new day, still I'm gonna miss you_

"Interesting choice," he commented once she was done. "Were you talking about yourself or me?"

She didn't answer directly. "It seemed appropriate. You look like a Stones fan." Claire turned to face him. "I was more right than I knew when I said you were a bad man. Detective Carter told me all about you."

"Oh." Reese considered that. "And just what is it she says I've done?"

"Assault. On the subway."

"Four toughs jumped _me_," he protested.

"I saw the video, John. Yes, there were four of them, all of them 20 years younger than you, and you put them all down in less than a minute, and put one of them in the hospital!"

"What can I say?" Reese shrugged. "They picked on the wrong guy. What else?"

"A few days later, assault with a deadly weapon. A couple of the same guys from the subway, shot with their own black-market guns by a tall, good-looking guy in a suit."

"Do the police have any evidence it was me?"

"Not directly, no, but they strongly suspect you. Then there's the bank robbery by the gang of ex-soldiers…"

Reese interrupted her. "I was there, yes, but I wasn't part of it! I was just in the wrong place at the wrong time."

"…And the break-in at the police evidence locker, by the same ex-soldiers, and three of them ended up dead in the street."

He looked her in the eyes steadily. "I had nothing to do with the deaths of those men."

Claire leaned towards him. "You shot those two young men trying to mug us. You could have killed them."

"I know how to use a gun. I aimed to wound, not kill."

"They were just kids."

"Punks with guns," he dismissed them with a wave. "Small-time hoodlums that needed to be taught a lesson."

"That's not for you to decide, John! Who are you to play God with their lives like that?" Claire sighed. "Detective Carter also talked about other cases they think you're connected to, cases of arson and murder. Have you ever killed anyone?"

He easily could have lied to her, but for some reason decided not to, not this time. "Yes."

"Recently?"

"I don't like to kill people, but I'm very good at it. I don't kill for fun, or for money. There are bad people in the world, and sometimes the law can't touch them."

"Just give me a straight answer!" she demanded. "What kind of man are you?"

"It's… complicated," Reese hedged.

"Oh, how convenient. Look, John, I can tell you were a soldier. I've got three brothers and two brothers-in-law who were Marines."

"Hoo-rah and _Semper Fi_. I've got nothing but love for the jarheads."

Claire sighed in exasperation and stood up. "It is nearly impossible to talk to you. Always with the snappy comeback." Reese watched her intently, like a great cat about to pounce on its prey once it broke and ran. "I'm going to the bathroom, if you don't mind," she said icily.

"Don't try anything foolish," he warned. She glared at him and strode away, her head held high, all affronted dignity. She kicked off her shoes in the general direction of the bedroom closet and closed the bathroom door perhaps a bit louder than was necessary.

Definitely spirited, this one, Reese mused to himself. She hadn't been scared of the muggers in the park; in fact she probably would have given them what for if left on her own. Maybe it was true about Irish redheads and their fiery temper.

He stood up when she came back into the room, years of officer training coming back to him. She had let her hair down and brushed it out. He walked over to her, and she met him halfway.

"Are you still afraid of me, Claire?" Reese asked.

"Should I be?" she retorted, but softly. "I don't know what to think anymore. I don't know anything about you. I like to think that I'm a good judge of people, but then Detective Carter comes along and makes me doubt myself, she tells me you're some psychopathic stalker. Maybe I judged you wrong, but all I can think about is how you were so gentle, and it was so amazing with you, and how I've wanted to see you again so _bad_…"

He silenced her with a kiss. Claire whimpered low in her throat and wrapped her arms around him, melting against him, returning his kiss with equal fervor.

But then, just as suddenly, she broke it off. "No," she said, shaking her head and pushing him away. "Walk away, John. Right now. I won't call the police, but just…walk away."

Reese stood stock-still. Why not walk away? He was good at that, wasn't he, leaving women for his duty? Jessica had said something very similar, ten years ago, in Mexico, after he'd told her he had quit the Army, but then 9-11 had happened and he knew he had to go back. He remembered Jessica's face very clearly at that moment.

"Well?" Claire said impatiently. "Have you said what you wanted to say to me, or is there something else?"

"All right, Claire. I won't darken your doorstep again." He went over to the notepads she kept next to the phone and tore off a piece of paper. "Here's my number, if you decide you ever want to see me again." He wrote in a strong, bold hand, as brash and masculine as everything else about him. He held it out to her.

After a moment, she took it but didn't look at it. "You can still change your mind," Reese offered.

"I…can't deal with this right now, John. Please, just go."

Reese made his way to the door. "You'll have to plug all your phones back in," he informed her over his shoulder as he left.

"What?" But he was gone. Claire couldn't decide what to make of it. He'd had the upper hand the whole time, but hadn't taken advantage of it. This was not the behavior of a determined stalker, either. She looked around, and then carefully placed the note with his number among the sheet music.

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><p>Reviews are love and low-fat smoothies! (Since we're all probably dieting after the holidays!)<p> 


	8. Connection

Title: Connection

Author: November9Noir

Rating: T or PG-13, for some suggestive dialogue

A/N: Finch's reaction to Reese's playtime in the park!

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><p>Finch hadn't called for a few days, so Reese decided to pay him a visit.<p>

"So nice of you to drop by today, Mr. Reese," Finch said when he arrived, in a tone so frosty the temperature in the room dropped by ten degrees.

Reese stopped in his tracks and considered the other man. Finch's back was to him, his posture even stiffer than usual. He was seriously pissed about something. "I thought I'd check in, since I haven't heard from you. Did we get a new number?"

"No." Finch paused, but he never seemed to be able to hold his verbosity in check for long. "But I did get a _very_ interesting e-mail from your pet detective, Fusco. It seems there was a mugging in Central Park two nights ago."

_That's it_, Reese decided privately. _I'm going to kill him for sure, this time_. _I should have known he was up to something_. "There are muggings every night in the Park," he answered Finch. "It's terrible how the city's going to hell."

"Yes, there are muggings all the time in New York, but not ones where three perpetrators are put down by a lone man in a suit, nearly getting their heads blown off in the process."

Reese sighed in annoyance. "That's not what happened."

"Oh?" Raised eyebrows from Finch. "Do enlighten me, then. Please."

"Can you please just get to the point?"

In reply, Finch limped over and showed Reese a picture, taken from the police station camera, of Claire leaving the precinct with Detective Carter. "Is this the woman you've been sleeping with?"

Reese's face was as impassive as ever. "You're implying it's been an ongoing thing, Finch. It was just the one night."

"Be that as it may," Finch said impatiently. "This is a fiasco! You've added another assault charge to your rather extensive rap sheet and 2 more charges of assault with a deadly weapon. For teenaged muggers. **Muggers**, Mr. Reese, for God's sake!"

Reese shrugged and sat down at the desk. "You think I overreacted." It wasn't really a question.

"YES!" Finch nearly exploded. "You give them your cell phone and wallet and _move on_. You don't shoot them and break their noses. Your girlfriend's a New Yorker, she knows what to do. These…heroics were quite unnecessary."

Reese leaned back, all unconcerned, stretched out his long legs and put his hands behind his head. "I'm a stalker now, too, according to the police."

"All the more reason for you to _stay away_ from this woman, then."

"I somehow doubt that is going to be an issue, Finch. You've checked her out, I assume?"

"Why don't you tell me what you know about her first, Mr. Reese."

"Not much," Reese shrugged again. "She said her name was Claire. She's left-handed, tall for a woman, about 5-foot-eight; her drink of choice seems to be vodka and cranberry juice. Dress size 8, a quality label but off-the-rack. Not athletic or a hard body by any means, but she keeps herself in shape. _Great_ legs. Short, neat fingernails, no jewelry of any kind, no identifying marks or tattoos on her person. A natural redhead…"

Finch interrupted him. "How could you _possibly_…" then subsided at Reese's knowing grin and wink, and at the realization of just how Reese would know the woman was a natural redhead. "Of…course," he choked. "Go on, please. Is there anything else?"

"Nothing in her purse except a few hundred dollars in cash, no credit card, I.D. or cell phone. She's a safety-minded gal, she provided the protection, she smelled really damn good and she was just a little bit kinky. I woke up the next morning, and she was gone."

_Yowza_. Finch blinked. Reese considered that 'not much?' He shook his head slightly and walked over to their project board and taped the picture up. Reese couldn't resist tagging along. "What do you know about her?"

Finch spared him a sideways glance. "What would you say if I told you she was my daughter?"

"Well, first I'd think that she would have to be younger than I thought, or you'd have to be older than I thought. And I'd have to rethink the cock-and-bull story she told me about being from a large Irish family," Reese replied.

No reaction from Finch was forthcoming. Reese began to experience the tiniest bit of dread. "And then I'd hope to God that you were making a _really_ bad joke…"

Still no response from the other man. It was an endless, heart-stopping, nauseating moment as Reese worked up the courage to ask, "Is she your daughter, Finch?" Oh, _Christ_, surely that was cause for being fired, screwing the bosses' daughter!

In his usual annoying way, Finch took his time about answering. "No, Mr. Reese, she's not my daughter," he finally said. "I never married."

"That doesn't mean she couldn't be your daughter," Reese pointed out, not entirely concealing a relieved sigh.

"A sad commentary on the state of our society, but nonetheless true." Was it Reese's imagination, or did a ghost of a smile cross Finch's face in satisfaction of having pulled one over on him?

"Damn, Harold, that is one hell of a poker face. I'm impressed. You're going to have to teach me that. I know, let's go to Atlantic City. You can be my Rain Man."

"Anyway, Mr. Reese," Finch said firmly. "Your girlfriend's name is Clarissa Sheridan, age 31, never married, no children, the youngest of 7 children from a New York Irish-American blue-blood family. Whatever the first ship over here was that had Irish on it, you can bet there were Sheridans. Solid, respectable citizens, working their way up over the generations from farmers to sheriffs and judges and City Council members, bettering themselves to estates on Long Island Sound and brownstones on the Upper West Side. Devoted Catholics, they give a lot of money to the local parishes and _Opus Dei_. They have a stellar history of being scientists, financiers, land developers and philanthropists.

"Ms. Sheridan has her teaching credential, as well as graduate degrees in mathematics and computer science. She teaches both, on occasion, at Adult Extension courses for new immigrants, single moms and the like. Not that she needs the money. She owns pieces of several patents for search engines and pattern recognition. Truly, a woman of independent means. Also, she's in her third year of a MacArthur genius grant, a cool half-million dollars tax-free over 5 years to do with whatever you want."

"Impressive. Has she done computer programming work? Is she a hacker?"

"Given her intelligence, she'd be a great one if she put her mind to it. But so far it seems she's lived a fairly upstanding life, not usually the type to pick up strange men in bars for sex," Finch said with some asperity.

"That seems like more information than you should be able to pull up from your computers," observed Reese. "Some of it sounds very personal. Do you know this woman, Finch?"

Again, Finch didn't respond for a while, tapping his finger absently against his leg. "She assisted me with of some early work for the Machine. And gave me quite a spirited debate on the civil liberties aspects of it, too, one night over sushi and too much _sake_. I can't face seaweed to this day, I got so sick. I find it an incredible coincidence that she should pick you up, of all people. But she thinks I'm dead, and there is no way to link us together. I just don't know what to make of it."

"Loneliness. She did it just to see if she could, maybe. A walk on the wild side," Reese said. "She was a little nervous that night, but she struck me as very genuine. Not desperate at all." There was more going on here than Finch was letting on. "Were you in love with her, Finch?"

"She was enamored with me." Which was not the question Reese had asked. "And she was quite relentless in pursuing me. Yes," Finch said primly to Reese's disbelieving snort. "_Some_ women find intelligence sexy, and don't just fall for brute strength and blue eyes."

Reese couldn't quite suppress his grin, but he said, "Of course, Finch, I'm sorry," with… passable sincerity.

"Now that you've had some fun at my expense, Mr. Reese, back to business," sniffed Finch. "Are you going to see her again?"

"I've left that up to her. I did give her my number when I was at her place last night…"

"You went to her apartment?" Finch yelped. "When she's probably under police surveillance? Are you crazy? I cannot believe you would be so reckless!"

"I wasn't followed, if that's what you're worried about, Finch," Reese replied, unperturbed.

'Are you _sure_?"

"Like you've said before, this is what I do. I'm sure."

Finch subsided, though not entirely mollified. "I'd say she got a little more than she bargained for on this particular walk on the wild side," he couldn't quite resist needling the other man.

But Reese could appreciate his attempt at humor, and his mouth quirked in a small smile. "Go ahead and say it, Dad. 'I should have known better.' You know you want to."

"She certainly should have known better, Mr. Reese."

"There's that double standard again, Harold…" Reese began to needle right back. He knew he wasn't entirely forgiven, and no doubt Finch would bring it up again at some point, but for now, things were patched up.


	9. Waiting On A Friend

Title: Waiting on a Friend

Author: November9Noir

Rating: T, or PG, for a few mild swear words

Disclaimer: I do not own the characters from 'Person of Interest,' nor am I profiting from this work in any way.

A/N: My tag for Ep. 1.9 'Get Carter,' missing scene at the end, Carter's internal dialogue.

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><p>Nashius Drake, <em>aka<em> 'Bottlecap.' Her C.I. Another one of her failures, someone else she hadn't been able to help. He couldn't adapt after coming back from Iraq, spiraling down into addiction and homelessness. Finally, she'd had to let him go, trying to help as best she could from time to time.

Elias had gotten to him. Who knew what he had promised Drake, drugs, money, women, a roof over his head, whatever. It had been enough to make the man she'd once served with, who had once been her friend, to try to shoot her dead, loyalty be damned.

All these thoughts spun through Carter's mind as Bottlecap stood over her, ready to shoot her in the head. Her ears were ringing from gunshots, not only the ones that hit her (yes, she was wearing a vest, but damn, it still hurt like hell and knocked the wind out of you), but then the ones that had flown over her and sent him flying back into the alley, landing dead in a heap. She remembered that he'd joked one time that was where he'd end up.

She could barely breathe; the alley was in shadow, as was his face, a tall man leaning over her, taking her hand, and then _that voice_, her vigilante, saying things that she didn't understand why he would be saying them to her. 'You're not alone' – what the hell did that mean?

Ex-military, wore a suit, liked to play God, this was what she knew about him. Why would he save her? For some bizarre reason she thought of Kenny, her dead husband. Kenny had been brash and confident, cocky almost. Carter decided that he would have liked her vigilante's style.

He'd called the police and an ambulance, he assured her. And the coroner, he said with a touch of irony. Why did the smile in his voice, however grim, reassure her so much? Why would he promise to stay with her until they came? And why didn't she try to get up and see his face more clearly? She just lay there and let herself be comforted by nothing more than his hand in hers and his quiet voice soothing away any fears. Carter found that she wasn't particularly worried if Elias had sent any back-up to Drake, but even if he had she had no doubt that Mr. Suit would protect her.

He faded away into the darkness when the sirens got close. "Be careful, Joss," he lightly scolded.

The next morning, breakfast with Taylor at the diner. She'd spent half the night at the hospital, and it still hurt to breathe, but she had escaped without any broken ribs. Taylor was concerned, but he knew enough not to ask too many questions. He was a good kid, Carter reflected to herself as he gave her a good-bye kiss. 14 going on 40, but keeping out of trouble. Of course, with a police officer mother and a fire-breathing Baptist grandmother that he lived with, he knew better.

Carter found herself lingering, wondering if Mr. Suit would contact her, whether through her cell or even just a nod as he zoomed away on the motorcycle he'd taken to riding.

What was he to her now? Criminal, quarry, protector, mystery man, sheer aggravation, pain in the ass! She didn't like his methods, but he sure as hell got results.

She couldn't wait any longer; it was time to get to work. Absently she paid the bill and wandered outside, checking her e-mails on her cell phone. A motorcycle zoomed off behind her, and though she couldn't be absolutely sure, it felt like it must her new…guardian angel? The absurd thought made her smile. If so, his halo was tarnished and dented almost beyond recognition. Well, call him a friend for now, but a friend she'd have to arrest if she met him again. No one got away with breaking the law, not on her watch.

It was one of the reasons she'd gotten into police work rather than being a lawyer after the Army. She'd had enough of gray areas and moral ambiguity. Solving a case, arresting someone and charging them, that was her job. Facts, cut and dry, black and white. Let others assign blame and meaning.

Carter realized she was woolgathering. Whatever mischief her vigilante was up to now, she did have other cases needing her attention.

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><p>Reviews are always love!<p> 


	10. Something Happened To Me Yesterday

Title: Something Happened To Me Yesterday

Author: November9Noir

Rating: PG-13

Disclaimer: I do not own the characters from 'Person of Interest,' nor am I profiting from this work in any way.

A/N: My tag for Ep. 1.10 'Number Crunch', best epi of the season IMHO. (I wish I could attach a sound file here, because in my opening scene I can hear the long, haunting intro of the Rolling Stones' 'Gimme Shelter' playing, must be the frustrated filmmaker in me…)

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><p>The images of the cityscape flashed in between the periods of blackness, just like a Martin Scorsese film montage. Reese couldn't be sure if it was minutes or seconds ticking by. He hoped it was the latter, but he also knew he was wounded seriously enough that it could well be minutes, that he was lapsing in and out of consciousness, slowly bleeding out into his abdominal cavity. A gruesome and uncomfortable death, and it was getting hard for him to breathe.<p>

He couldn't seem to hold himself upright. More cityscapes passed by, with the occasional words from Finch, 'Hang on, John. Hang on. We're almost there." Light and shadow passing rhythmically, buildings and streetlights, and then they were somewhere dark, Finch opening the door and somehow managing to manhandle him out of the back of the limo and onto a gurney.

"No hospitals," Reese wheezed. Finch was almost as surprised as Reese was that he was still conscious.

"I know what I'm doing," Finch snapped. This was not the emergency entrance, Reese realized. It was cold and harshly lit. Banging through one of the many doors, he saw 'Office of the Medical Examiner,' and then the arrow sign pointing to the Morgue.

"I'm not dead yet," he protested, whether a weak attempt at a jest or as a plea for Finch not to leave him to die, Reese wasn't quite sure.

"Yes, Mr. Reese, I know," a tight-lipped and pale Finch replied. "Be quiet now." He covered Reese with the sheet and pushed through the last swinging door.

"Third one tonight," the coroner said, not looking up from his laptop. "Must be a full moon." Finch wheeled the gurney over to the table and pulled the sheet off, showing a wounded Reese. That got the man's attention.

"Your name is Farouk Mahdani," Finch declared. "You were the best surgeon in Najaf. But you can't afford a license in the States because you send all your money home to family." He limped over to the doctor, slung a satchel from his shoulder and dumped it out on to the table. $250,000, but who was counting?

"Stitch him up, no questions asked, and you can be a doctor again." Finch was not asking. Dr. Mahdani looked back and forth a few times from the money to the patient. His expression didn't change, but he got up and lowered the rail to the gurney and got right to work. Finch stepped back with a slight relieved sigh.

When the doctor extracted the bullet from Reese's thigh, Reese promptly passed out. "Just as well," Dr. Mahdani muttered. It was battlefield surgery, quick and dirty, but he got the job done, stopped the bleeding, and Reese's chances were better than they were before.

"It's up to him and God now," he declared when he was done.

"Thank you, Doctor," Finch said, "You have saved his life, and I'm very grateful for that. I have people to take care of him from here."

"Don't thank me yet," Dr. Mahdani advised. "He needs a hospital. He's very likely going to develop septicemia."

"My people are very good," Finch assured him. "They'll be prepared for anything."

Finch held out the satchel, repacked with the money. Mahdani looked at him and shook his head. "Keep it. I am a doctor. I don't want your money."

(Some time later…)

Reese slowly came awake into fuzzy darkness, hearing the sound of heart and pulse monitors, feeling the oxygen feeding in through tubes in his nose, and needles dripping cold fluids into his arms via I.V.'s. Someone shifted in the chair next to the hospital bed.

"Welcome back from the dead, Mr. Reese," came Finch's voice, as wry as usual. "How do you feel?"

Reese considered that for a moment. "Like I've been shot," he finally replied. Finch chuckled at that. Reese tried to move, but _everything_ hurt like hell. "Ugh," he groaned as he gave up. "No, I feel like I've been rode hard and put away wet. What happened?"

"You got shot." Reese couldn't see Finch's face, but he could hear his light teasing tone.

"Finch…" Reese half-growled and half-sighed in warning.

"I'm sorry, John. I have really missed talking to you, so forgive me if I tease you a little bit and take advantage of your weakened state. You were never what anyone would call verbose, but I do appreciate your rather dry sense of humor."

Finch's monologues usually gave Reese a headache, but since everything else hurt just about equally he decided to let it go. "How long has it been?"

Finch took a deep breath. "Sixteen days. It's December 31st."

"Nice to know I didn't sleep the year away," Reese commented dryly. "Were my injuries that bad?"

"The bullet in your leg fractured your femur and put a nice big hole in your quadricep, but didn't hit any vital artery. The bullet you took in your abdomen was a 'through & through,' the doctor said, that nicked your large intestine and caused internal bleeding. You developed septicemia and had a raging fever for many days. But thanks to massive doses of antibiotics, and, I think, your own stubborn refusal to die, here you are." It was the longest speech Reese had ever heard Finch make.

Reese's mouth twisted into a smile. "Thanks, Harold. Where am I?"

"My own personal physician's private clinic."

"Of course." _Where else?_ Reese thought to himself.

"What do you remember?" Finch wanted to know.

"You wheeling me down to the morgue and dumping a bunch of money on the table, telling the doctor to fix me up."

"Which obviously he did. But here's the thing. He didn't take the money when he was done. He just said 'I am a doctor' and walked away."

Reese smiled at the surprise in Finch's voice. "Not everyone can be bought. Some people will still do the right thing because it's the right thing."

An attractive, slender, middle-aged Japanese woman came in. Her face was kind and unlined in that Asian way, though her hair was showing some silver-gray among the thick raven's-wing black. "Hello, Mr. Reese," she said in a pleasantly musical voice. "I am Dr. Kaneko. I am very pleased to see you awake. Harold-san never doubted that you would pull through." She wore a modest knee-length (if tight) skirt, and a silk blouse under her white doctor's coat.

"Heart rate and blood pressure good, still some swelling and fever," she announced after examining him, palpitating his abdomen and leg. "We'll start you on some physical therapy in the next few days." Dr. Kaneko turned up the drip on his painkillers.

"Doctor's orders. Rest now," Finch advised. As Reese drifted off, he heard Finch say, "By the way, I'm going to have to dock your pay, Mr. Reese. It's a bitch to get blood out of leather, you know. I had to have the back seat replaced in the limousine."

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><p>Okay, yay, I got it done! There have been so many wonderful fics out there for this ep, here is my humble offering.<p> 


	11. Let's Spend the Night Together

Title: Let's Spend the Night Together

Author: November9Noir

Rating: T+, soft 'R' for sexual content

Disclaimer: I do not own 'Person of Interest, nor am I profiting from this work in any way.

A/N: approximately 2 months after Reese and Claire last interacted. After Ep. 1.12 'Legacy' but before Ep. 1.13 'Root Cause.' My first Lemon-flavored fic, so be nice! Sensual but not too graphic.

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><p>Reese forwarded through the feeds from Claire's apartment. Finch had taken it upon himself to monitor her comings and goings, casually at first, and then more intently after Reese had been shot. So far, it seemed she had had no guests, official or otherwise in the last 2 months, and had spent every night at home, alone.<p>

Odd that Snow had not visited, considering that the CIA had full access to his NYPD files, where no doubt the mugging incident was recorded in all its sordid glory. Reese would have used that intel on a target, given that a previous sexual partner was the most likely point of return if the subject was still known to be in the area.

It was suddenly important to Reese to know if Mark had co-opted her or not, hoping that she hadn't been, wanting _something _in his life that wasn't tainted by what he'd been before.

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><p>He'd thoroughly checked out all around her apartment building, anyplace where anyone could have been conducting surveillance. All clear. Reese let himself in the same way he had before and swept for electronic monitoring devices. Again, nothing.<p>

That should have been enough. He should have turned around and walked out. But the knowledge that this was a safe place, at least for tonight, made Reese secure the door, deadbolt and all, and silently make his way to the bedroom where Claire lay sleeping. He sat on the chaise in front of the window and watched her for a while. She woke up when he turned on the reading light, and seemed resigned to see him.

"John," she sighed, sitting up and pushing her hair out of her eyes. "Oh, I thought I was dreaming. What are you doing here?"

"I wanted to see you," Reese replied. "You haven't called."

"No, I haven't."

"It's all right, that number's disconnected now anyway."

"So you thought breaking in again would be a good idea?" Claire shook her head. "Haven't you ever heard of knocking?"

"I couldn't be sure I wouldn't be greeted with a bullet," he smiled wryly. "Are you still packing?"

"That's for me to know and for you to find out." Oh, she was good. Most people's eyes would have flicked toward where the gun was hidden, but she only looked steadily at him.

"Come over here." She gestured for him to sit next to her on the bed. Claire was sure he could hear her heart beating fast and furious. This was every late-night fantasy come to life, the tall dark handsome mysterious lover sneaking into her bedroom. "It's late, it's quiet, everyone's asleep. You could do whatever you want to me."

"Yes, I could," Reese agreed. "But I won't. That's not who I am."

"I know. You're the oddest stalker I ever heard of."

As he eased his jacket off, pulling his gun out from behind him and concealing it underneath, then sat at the foot of the bed. "You were right about something," he said. Her breath hitched at his nearness, his warmth and masculine scent.

"Oh?" Her eyebrows raised in surprise and curiosity. "What about?"

"About me. I was a soldier. U.S. Army Rangers, Special Forces, almost 15 years."

"Impressive. Even my lifer Marine brother would appreciate that."

"So, are you going to call the cops?" he wanted to know.

"Since you've probably already unplugged all my phones…"

"Not this time," Reese promised. Claire smiled and scooted down the bed closer to him, looking very alluring with her tousled hair and dark green cotton men's V-neck shirt she wore to sleep in.

"What am I going to do with you, John?"

"Whatever you want," he offered. The fantasy was just getting better and better. Then, oh God, he leaned over and kissed her, cupping her face with his hand, and she was lost. She kissed him back fervently and pressed herself to him.

"I wasn't expecting a gentleman caller, so I don't have any protection," she murmured when they broke apart.

Smiling, Reese pulled a small box of condoms from his trousers pocket. "Corner drugstore, open 24 hours, it's a beautiful thing."

"Presumptuous _ass_," Claire scolded, but she took the box from him, untangled herself from the covers, and pulled him down.

Soon they were both naked, protection deployed, she was riding him when he reached up and grabbed the bars of the brass headboard. "You'd better get the handcuffs out," he declared.

She looked down at him. "Why?"

"I feel like I'm not going to be able to control myself. I don't want to hurt you, God knows I don't, but I also don't…"

"What?" she pressed when he broke off. "Tell me."

Reese took a deep breath to calm himself, and then looked her directly in the eyes. "I don't want to be gentle, either."

Claire smiled dreamily. Here was the final part of the fantasy, the lover fierce and passionate, desperate for her, yet concerned for her feelings as well as her pleasure… She rolled him on top of her. "Then don't be."

"Oh, God," he groaned, his vision darkening with lust and need. "Will you tell me if I hurt you?"

"No," she whispered, and that was his last coherent thought for a while. Excited beyond madness at her complete submission to him, everything was a jumble of images, sounds and sensations, like the smell of her skin, mingled with latex and sex, as well as her raking her fingernails down his back and crying out his name in passion and surrender. When he came, it was phenomenal and intense and nearly blinded him, but he exulted in after everything that had happened he was still alive, by God, and it was sweet!

Then there was the halcyon oblivion of laying in your lover's arms, listening to each other's ragged breathing and feeling your hearts pound together. Some warm dark sexually sated eternity later Reese found the energy to move to her side and gather her to him, nuzzling his face in the crook of her neck.

One of her hands twined with his, and the other went around him to run her fingers through his hair. "_Wow_," she breathed shakily.

Reese grinned, too smug for words. There could be no greater ego boost than a beautiful woman breathless with passion and nearly speechless in the aftermath of your lovemaking. "Did I hurt you?" he asked.

"No." Claire shook her head. "It was wonderful."

"It's nice to know that this old man's still got it."

She turned to face him. "What do you mean 'old man'? How old are you?"

"Forty-two," he admitted.

"That's not old!" she exclaimed. "That is practically the prime of life. And you are a magnificent male specimen, John."

"Why, thank you. Have you always had a thing for older men, then?" Reese asked, amused.

"I'm the youngest in my family. All the boys I ever met, my brothers' friends, were all always older than me. I don't think I ever had a choice. And then in graduate school, there was this one man, much older…" She broke off.

"Yes? Don't leave me hanging."

"It's not important." Claire sat up and rummaged around the bed for something to wear. When she couldn't find her own night shirt, she co-opted Reese's shirt and strolled into the kitchen. Reese heard her getting a glass of water, then she came in with one for each of them.

She sat on the side of the bed and handed him the glass. He didn't feel thirsty; in fact just looking at her was making his mouth water. But he took a drink just to avoid dehydration and found that he was parched after all.

Claire watched him with a serious expression on her face, then seemed to decide something. She leaned over him and kissed him, then reached through the bars of the headboard, pulled out her gun from its holster hanging there and handed it to him.

"Thank you, Claire," he said as he unloaded it and put it away. "It really means a lot, that you trust me."

"How about yours? You're packing heat yourself," Claire said, nodding at the chaise. "Why? I saw you hide it."

"Oh, you saw that?" he smiled. "I'm carrying for the same reason you are, self-defense."

Claire pulled the covers down to reveal his new scars. "Speaking of trust, were you going to tell me about these? Not only were you shot recently, you were shot twice. Did someone try to mug you again, or are you some sort of gangster?"

Reese looked at her seriously. "I'm not a criminal. I was shot December 15th. I nearly died. I'm feeling every one of my years right now." He took her hand, trying to decide what to say. Her eyes never left his face. "It's complicated, and more often than not illegal, what I do. I am what I am, Claire. I'm sorry I can't tell you more."

"A mystery man?" She considered that for a moment. "I can live with that. I'm willing to see where this goes. I've been a law-and-order type all my life. I guess I could walk on the wild side for once."

He smiled, remembering his conversation with Finch about walking on the wild side. "I would like to know, though, why did you pick me up that night?" he asked. "You don't seem to be the type to be slumming, or a thrill-seeker."

"Clearly, I wasn't slumming, John. What you really want to know is if I've done it before," Claire said. Reese shook his head. "Honestly, I was feeling sorry for myself. The last girlfriend of the gang besides me had just gotten married. We'd stopped at that bar for her bachelorette party the week before as a good-bye to the good old days, and I noticed you as we were leaving. When you were there again, it seemed like Destiny or something."

"And you've never been married? Not even close to it?"

Claire shrugged. "I just never found the one I wanted to settle down with. All I knew was that I didn't want to be married to a jarhead."

Her fingers were cool from the water glass, and she stroked his thigh almost absently until he grabbed her hand. "You're going to have to stop that now," he commanded. "I don't want to be ready too soon and not be able to take care of you. I was a little selfish last time."

Reese unbuttoned his own shirt that she was wearing and pulled it off as he kissed her. He leaned her back and kissed his way down her body. She smelled and tasted just as sweet as he remembered, and pleasured her until she begged him to stop. He allowed her to push him onto his back as she was pulling him up to her, and he handed her another condom with a smile.

"Are you sure you don't want the handcuffs?" he teased as she resumed riding him.

"I'm sure, John. I want you to touch me all over," Claire replied, breathless. He was more than happy to oblige, furthering his reputation as an attentive and skilled lover, and they fell asleep twined together.

He startled awake sometime later. Something had changed. Reese got up and turned off the lamp, then went to the window. The sounds of the city were muffled from the winter storm that had dropped in during the night.

"John," Claire called sleepily. "Come back to bed. I'm cold."

He let the curtain fall and slipped in next to her. "It's snowing."

"I know." She turned away as Reese put an arm around her, cradling her to him, and felt the wetness on her face.

"Hey, are you crying? What's wrong?"

She brushed her tears away. "It's nothing. I've just been on an emotional tightrope lately, and I get sad in winter. It's okay until Thanksgiving, maybe into December if we're lucky, but then the cold and the wet get to me, it's just so depressing!"

"Then let's go someplace warm and sunny," Reese said without thinking.

"Just like that? You could just leave your job for the next 2 months until spring?"

"It seems unlikely," he agreed as she snuggled back into him.

"But, if we could, where would we go?"

Now that he thought about it, where could they go? Flying was probably out of the question, even though the TSA was a joke. Crossing any international borders was out, too, not that he had a passport anymore…

"Florida," Reese offered finally. "Key West."

"About as far south as you can get and still be in the U.S.," Claire agreed. "Perfect. And my second favorite place in the whole world. My family has a timeshare down there, too."

He woke later in a perfect cocoon of contentment, his body curled around Claire's. He couldn't resist nibbling on her neck in that place she loved so much. "What, again?" she murmured, coming awake to Reese's caresses, feeling his flesh press against her.

"I'm not as young as I used to be," Reese teased. "It takes me longer to recover in between times. Besides, there's only one condom left. It seems a shame to waste it."

Still half-asleep, Claire let him arrange their bodies so he could use one hand to caress her body all over, make sure she came over and over as he thrust inside her and finally lost himself. He held her close and trembled with the intensity of it.

Some time later, she sighed in contentment. "You know that box of six I had that first night we were together was not meant as a challenge!" Claire smiled. "Although you rose to the occasion admirably." He smiled and kissed her, content to drift off in her arms.

* * *

><p>Reese stirred awake in a strange bed. That in and of itself was not unusual, but then the delightful aroma of cinnamon rolls helped him remember where he was. It was going to be a good day. He stretched, smiling, and rolled out of bed, noticing that Claire had neatly hung up his clothes.<p>

"Should be ready in just a few minutes," Claire informed him when he wandered out into the kitchen. She was looking very cute in an NYU sweatshirt and yoga pants, her hair pulled back in a messy ponytail.

"Do you mind if I borrow your shower?" Reese asked.

"Not at all, but everything in there is kind of girly for you to wash with."

"I'll make do."

"All right, then," she allowed, admiring him as he walked away.

When he came out ten minutes later, dressed as usual in his white shirt and black pants, coffee and bacon had joined the enticing smells from the kitchen. Claire was frosting the cinnamon rolls, licking her fingers with the leftover frosting. She caught sight of him just as she was getting ready to lick the knife clean as well. Reese smiled at her, a gleam in his eye.

"What?" she wanted to know.

"Oh, nothing. Just…having a fantasy."

"Involving…?"

"You, wearing a Catholic schoolgirl outfit and stilettos. Cream cheese icing is in there somewhere, too, not sure if it's on you or on me."

"Well, I'll remember that, then," she said as Reese poured himself a cup of coffee and took a big swig, then nearly choked on the molten hot, at least double-strength acidic brew.

"Oh, sorry!" Claire exclaimed. "I should have warned you!"

"Wow, that's strong!" commented Reese, his eyes watering as he tried to catch his breath. "I haven't had coffee like that since Afghanistan. And I thought it was battery acid there."

"I make it strong, sorry. Habit. I usually ice it, and put in lots of cream and sugar." The microwave went off and the last of the bacon was done. Claire placed everything on the breakfast bar.

"This is quite a spread, thank you. You know they say the quickest way to a man's heart is through his stomach," Reese said.

"Really?" Claire asked, eyes wide in mock innocence. "I always thought it was through his ribcage. And I might have some orange juice to go with this, to make it at least slightly nutritious."

"Nice place," he commented as they were eating. "It looks a lot different in the daytime. How long has you lived here?"

She thought about it. "Wow, almost six years."

"Do you rent or own?"

"It's mine. I've always loved this area. I grew up just next door, in Fort Hamilton." They wandered over to the picture window. Her piano was thickly clustered with pictures, mostly friends and family, but one caught his eye.

"What's this? You, backstage with Charlie Watts?"

"He's my favorite Stone. I'm surprised I didn't become a drummer. I was there at the first show at the Beacon Theatre in 2006 that became the concert movie Scorsese did with them."

Reese whistled in wonder. "How'd you get in? There were only a few thousand seats over a couple of nights."

"American Express," Claire said. Reese just looked at her. "What, you think I'm kidding? It was very expensive, but I had great seats, and it was _totally_ worth it."

"How did you get backstage?"

"Well, that. Actually, I was invited. I used to be in an all-female Rolling Stones cover band."

"Really? What did you call yourselves?"

She smiled. "Some Girls."

"Of course," Reese laughed. "So, what broke up the band?"

"Oh, you know, the usual. We grew up, got married, got real jobs, had babies. Our lead singer Sheila, _aka_ 'Chick Jagger,' finally went into rehab for multiple addictions-drugs, alcohol, sex. She found Jesus, became a born-again Christian, a _Baptist_!" Claire said in mock horror.

With the business of food taken care of, a different type of hunger began to stir again. "That body wash really made my skin soft," Reese murmured, leaning over and kissing her. The scent worked well on him too. He was masculine enough to pull it off without any embarrassment. From the other room, his phone beeped insistently for an incoming text. Sighing, he went and retrieved his jacket, pulled the phone out from his pocket, checked the message and then deleted it.

"I'm sorry, duty calls." he said, resigned, as he put his jacket on and found his shoes.

"Am I going to see you again?" Claire asked. She twined her arms around his neck and adjusted his collar. He had really gone all out to please her the last time they had made love, almost as if he was saying goodbye.

"I don't know," he replied. "I shouldn't see you again. But it's not safe to associate with me, right now particularly, and all-around generally. I like you, I really do. But let's face it, I'm not really boyfriend material. My hours are erratic, to say the least. This is it for me, an occasional night spent together. I'm not the type of man you bring home to meet your parents. You deserve better."

"I can't argue with any of that, John. But don't close the door just yet." She put a slip of paper in his jacket pocket. "Here's my number. Call me, and we'll see what we can work out. And next time, try knocking."


	12. Respectable

Title: Respectable

Author: November9Noir

Rating: PG, T+

Disclaimer: I do not own the characters from 'Person of Interest,' nor am I profiting from this work in any way.

A/N: post-'Baby Blue,' even if Reese wanted to be normal, he really can't!

* * *

><p>After John had made love to her with his usual quiet intensity and fierce tenderness, though Claire couldn't quite put her finger on it, he seemed clingier than usual. He held her on his chest and caressed her back with his strong, callused and yet gentle hands.<p>

"Have you ever thought about having children?" he asked out of nowhere.

She had gotten somewhat used to his left-field conversational style, so she wasn't entirely surprised. "Of course. I had it all planned out. I thought I'd get married after graduate school and have four or five of my own kids by now. But Mr. Right still hasn't put in his appearance, so I've had to adjust my expectations. I can get my kid fix with my nieces and nephews, but since I turned 30 I'm definitely hearing by biological clock ticking louder."

"Married to a good Catholic boy?"

"Most likely," she agreed.

"That you've already slept with," he said wryly.

Claire put her chin on her hands and looked at him. "This is the 21st century, John. Don't be naïve. Why all the questions?"

Reese touched her face and ran a hand through her hair. "I'm sure you'll be a great mom. You've still got a lot of time left."

_Why_ must he be so exasperating? Claire sighed to herself. It was his way to almost never answer a direct question, and maybe one of these days she would learn to stop asking and giving herself aggravation.

But he caught her sigh and her change in body language. "I'm sorry," he said. "I did something wrong again, didn't I?"

"Well, you can't start a conversation and then just drop it by changing the subject. It's rude. And you should learn to answer direct questions."

Reese winced when she stroked her hand down his arm and passed over his abraded wrists. "Hold on a second, let me get you something for that." Claire swung out of bed and went into the bathroom where he heard her rummaging around. She came back out with a thick salve, dressings, gauze and adhesive tape for his injuries. "Do you want to tell me about this?" she asked as she worked on him.

"Not really." And once again, she nodded and accepted his lack of explanation. Without his meaning to, this woman had become his sanctuary from all the madness in his life. Just for a moment, he imagined them married, in a home of their own, a toddler at her knee, a baby on her hip, and expecting another…

"You've got that look on your face again. Are you having another fantasy?" she asked.

"Yes, but not like the school girl uniform-and-stilettos fantasy."

"Hey, I _tried_ to fulfill that one. _You_ showed up late, smelling like a barbeque, and then you fell asleep on me!"

Reese smiled. "I told you, the spirit was willing, but the flesh was weak. Besides, we eventually got around to it."

Claire returned his smile. "I get aroused every time I walk by Cinnabon now."

* * *

><p>(The next morning.)<p>

"_Mr. Reese, someone's coming to the door_," Finch said over his earpiece just as they heard the knock. _"It's…_

"Dad!" Claire cried as she opened up.

"…_her father_," Finch finished wryly.

"What are you doing in the city on the weekend?" she wanted to know.

"Just got the new string in and cleared medically and I was going to go see them, so I thought you might like to join me. Unless you had other plans today," he said, catching sight of Reese. Claire glanced over at him and only blushed slightly.

"Dad, this is my friend John Reese. John, this is my father, James Sheridan." The men shook hands and sized each other up. "Did we have any plans today?" she asked Reese.

"No, nothing specific." He could tell that James Sheridan was no fool. It wasn't unpardonably early, and both Reese and Claire were dressed in street clothes, but the remains of breakfast for two were on the counter. It would be fairly obvious to anyone with eyes to see that Reese had spent the night.

Sheridan was of the baby boom generation, where everyone knew 'friend' meant 'lover.' The man couldn't be so naïve as to think his early-30s daughter hadn't had at least a dozen lovers in her lifetime. He was in his mid-60s, six feet tall, a full head of distinguished gray hair and ice-blue eyes. Claire must get her soft blue from her mother, Reese thought to himself.

"I'll go get my riding clothes," Claire said. "You should come too, John."

"What do you say, Mr. Reese?" Sheridan asked as Claire disappeared into the bedroom. "Do you ride?"

"Ride what, sir?" Reese had a feeling he was missing something in this conversation.

"Horses."

"Oh. No- no." He thought about the sure-footed pack ponies in Afghanistan. "Beasts of burden and I don't get along."

"These are not beasts of burden! These are the finest polo ponies on the East Coast!"

"Then they'd probably been even less tolerant of an incompetent rider. This is not sounding like a good idea."

"Humor me," Sheridan said, his voice steely and commanding, the tone of a man used to being obeyed. "It will make Claire happy, too."

"All right, sir."

Sheridan suddenly smiled. "At ease, soldier. You're practically saluting me. I was just a swabbo. Did my 3 years in the Navy during Vietnam, and then got the hell out. I don't know what possessed all three of my sons and one of my daughters to join the Marines. Where did you serve?"

"U.S. Army Rangers. Multiple tours in Iraq and Afghanistan."

"That's tough. One of my twin boys, Patrick, his last tour in Afghanistan was what finally convinced him to quit. Got his ten years in, though."

Claire reappeared with a small duffel bag. "I couldn't find my riding boots right away," she explained.

They walked down to the parking garage. "I'd better take my own car and follow you in case I get called for work," Reese demurred.

"2012 Cadillac STS, basic black, fully loaded, very classy," Sheridan approved. Claire waved and went to ride with her father.

He'd paired her phone a long time ago, but resisted the urge to listen in on their conversation. Finch rang in. "So, you're meeting your _paramour_'s father. This is awkward." Reese didn't feel Finch was expecting any reply, so he didn't say anything. "You've been spending a lot of time with Miss Sheridan," Finch observed. "If I may prevail upon you to download the contents of her computer for me, I would appreciate it."

Reese fidgeted in his seat. "You still think she's your hacker?"

"Every avenue must be explored, Mr. Reese. I don't believe in coincidence. You renew your dalliance with her and less than a week later my system is compromised? It defies credulity. She has the skills, the question is, does she have the means and motivation?"

He followed them out to Staten Island, to one of the many-acre horse properties, this one with some woodland trails and a practice polo field. Reese tried to demur one more time, saying he didn't have proper riding clothes, but Claire and her father assured him that his jeans were fine.

"Get me _out_ of this, Finch," Reese muttered into his earpiece.

Finch was enjoying himself immensely. "And deprive you of the opportunity of seeing Ms. Sheridan's lovely legs in those painted-on jodhpurs? Oh, I don't think so."

"Are you peeping in the women's dressing room, you pervert?"

"I could, if I wanted to. But no, here she comes now." Claire came out in khaki riding pants that clung closer than a second skin and a soft cotton long-sleeved button up shirt, over which she was zipping a light form-fitting jacket. Her hair was pulled back at the nape of her neck. Reese goggled at her.

"I just got a whole new fantasy involving you in those riding boots," he whispered to her. She only smiled.

Sheridan was right there. "She's got great legs, doesn't she? Just like her mother," he commented.

The stables were warm and scrupulously clean, smelling of hay and horse. "Which one do you like, baby girl?" Sheridan asked Claire.

"The bay, definitely," Claire replied. Sheridan chuckled.

"She's been absolutely horse-mad since she was 8 years old," he said to Reese. "Always had a good eye for them, too. How about you, John?"

One swiveled an ear and cocked it at him. "The black," Reese decided, "with the blaze on its face."

They both looked at him. "I thought you said you don't know anything about horses," Sheridan said.

"I don't."

"That term for the type of mark on a horse's face is exactly correct," Claire informed him.

"I must have read it somewhere, then."

"The horse responds to commands. Don't show fear, you are in charge. Speak firmly, look the animal in the eye, move slowly but surely," Sheridan ordered. All the horses were saddled and bridled and ready to go, and they took them by the reins and led them out to the riding paths.

It was a lovely early spring day, cool under trees, and the horses _clopped-clopped_ along, Claire's bay a spritely bundle of energy under her expert control, Reese's black mare steady and content to follow their lead.

Reese hung back a bit as Sheridan and Claire rode together. "So," Sheridan said, loud enough for Reese to hear, "your friend John doesn't talk a lot, does he?"

Claire glanced back and Reese and smiled. "I find it refreshing."

"No doubt it's quite a change from a roomful of Irish blowhards who have an opinion about everything."

They let the horses have a practice run on the polo field, and then returned to the stables. Reese couldn't avoid being alone with Sheridan for a while.

"So you're the man who's put the sparkle in my daughter's eye these last few months," Sheridan said. "She usually gets the winter blues and takes off for Florida until April. She didn't say why she stuck around this time, but her mother and I had our suspicions."

What exactly could Reese say to that? '_I really wouldn't know about that, sir, we've just been sleeping together off and on for about six months_.' True, perhaps, but not something you said to a woman's father! "She has mentioned the family timeshare in Key West," he finally replied.

"How old are you, John?" Sheridan asked.

"Forty-three next month," Reese replied. Sheridan thought about that.

"Claire will be 32 in June. Not an insurmountable age difference at this point in her life."

"No, sir." Reese wondered what he was getting at.

"You'll have to come by for family dinner sometime," Sheridan finally decided. "I think my boys would like you, and my sons-in-law. All you military types can talk it up. I'll tell my wife that if we invite Claire over we might have to set an extra place."

"That sounds like fun," Finch piped in Reese's ear wryly. "Enduring the dirty looks from a roomful of ex-Marines for sleeping with the baby of the family."

Reese gritted his teeth because he couldn't say anything. Fortunately, Claire came out from the women's changing room and to his rescue. "John's on call, Dad, for a rather demanding employer. I'm surprised he's left John alone this long." _If only she knew_, Reese thought.

Sheridan invited them for lunch, but Claire made excuses for them. "Thank you," Reese said after she had smoothly guided them away and into the car.

"I'm sorry to have thrown you into the deep end like that. I know this had to be awkward for you, at least, meeting my father. He liked you, I could tell."

Oh, to live in a world where it mattered if your girlfriend's father approved of you or not. Finch surprisingly held his tongue.

How could he ever have thought he could fit into her world of polo ponies, black-tie fundraisers at the Met and lunch at Le Cirque? She was a child of privilege.

"I know what you're thinking," Claire said.

This should be interesting. "What am I thinking?"

"That I'm a trust fund baby, spoiled and good for nothing. I make no apologies for my life, John. Yes, I have been blessed with opportunities that others haven't. I've earned my own money, and I was brought up that 'those to whom much is given, much is expected.'"

It was a quiet ride back to Bay Ridge. Reese managed to download her computer files on a zip drive while she was changing her clothes. He made the excuse that he had to check in with his aforementioned demanding employer who out of character hadn't called for a while, and drove back to the Library.

"What do you have on James Sheridan?" he asked as he walked in. "I assume you've checked him out."

"In 1967, he took $10,000 of his own money and started his real estate business, and started a family a year later. He has a solid balance sheet, his word is his bond, and a handshake seals the deal. Never a whiff of scandal, bribery, payoffs or any union shenanigans. So, even in our world, Mr. Reese, there are still people who are exactly what they appear to be."

"And Claire?" Reese wanted to know.

"An intelligent, beautiful and accomplished woman. She had a few wild years, but she's pretty well settled into her own skin now. A fine prize for any man bold enough to reach out and take it."

"That sounds like a challenge, Finch."

Finch shrugged. "If you like. I admire her for smoothing out some of your rough edges."

Reese considered him. "You don't look like a _yenta_."

"You of all people should know that appearances are often deceiving."


End file.
